


Time

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Friendship, Gen, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Quest, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bag End needs a good spring clean and Frodo decides to help Sam and Rosie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own them. They belong to JRR Tolkien. I just have a vivid and angsty imagination.
> 
> This story was written some years ago and beta'd for me. Sadly, I've lost the details of my beta. So if it was you . . . thank you very much.

“I am quite well, Sam. Stop fussing.” Frodo snatched the damp mop back from his friend and continued to swish across the polished tiles of the hall floor. He was trying very hard to ignore Sam’s hovering but it was rather difficult as he kept backing into him.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Frodo. But it’s the long hall and you weren’t well last month.” He wished he could swallow back the words when he saw Frodo’s shoulders tense, although the mop continued its journey from side to side.

“Nonsense. What ever put that idea into your head?” The tone was unnaturally light.

Sam grabbed the mop handle, forcing Frodo to face him. “I know you were trying to keep it from me and Rosie because of Elanor, but you should know better. You were off your food for days.”

Frodo clenched his lips and squared his shoulders in that pose that Sam had seen too often. It usually meant that his master had made up his mind and would not be shifted. “What if I was ill? I’m not ill now so shoo and let me finish my contribution to the spring-cleaning. I’ve always helped, ever since I came to live at Bag End as a tween. And you and Rosie have a lot on your plate at the moment, with a new baby. I insist upon doing my share of the work.” 

Sam opened his mouth to protest but those intense blue eyes froze the words in his throat. “And it’s my home too. I let you and Rosie do too much of the work.” He wrested the mop away with a strength that surprised Sam, dipping it in the bucket and wringing it out before re-applying it to the floor. His friend turned slowly and returned to where Rosie waited in the door. Sam could only raise his sandy brows at her as he turned her into the kitchen.

As soon as the door was closed Rosie slipped Eleanor into her basket and rounded on her husband, hands on hips.

“What does he think he’s doing? He don’t fool no-one. He may have helped spring-clean before but we all know he ain’t as strong as he was.” 

Sam shook his head as he climbed onto a chair to continue lifting down the crocks from the top shelf of the dresser. “I know, Rosie, love. But when Mr Frodo is set on a thing there ain’t nothin’ that will stop him until he drops. Believe me.” 

Rosie handed him a damp cloth to wipe the empty shelf and began to ferry the crocks to the sink for washing, peeping down at Eleanor on the way past and smiling at the tiny sleeping face. “He’s not used to such work nowadays. You mark my words. He’s going to be lucky if he can stir from his bed tomorrow, he’ll be that sore.”

00000000000000

“Mornin’, Mr Frodo.” Sam swept aside the curtains and turned in time to hear a soft groan and watch deep blue eyes crack open. He stood, arms folded, as he waited for the noises to continue. 

Frodo made to roll onto his back and his eyes widened into full and intense wakefulness. This time there was a little squeak, followed by the hiss of an indrawn breath. Sam hid a smile as he turned to fetch his master’s dressing gown.

“Me and Rosie thought you’d like a lie in, this mornin’, after all your help yesterday. So I’m afraid you’ve missed first breakfast. But second breakfast is comin’ along nicely if you’d like to join us.” He held out the dressing gown as though he saw nothing amiss, waiting patiently for Frodo to rise from his mattress.

For his part, Frodo lay still, trying to work out how to make his body produce the movements required to get upright without causing any additional discomfort. Even breathing sent tiny slivers of pain knifing up and down his spine and his arms felt as though he had been hanging from them for several days. 

Clenching his jaw, he decided that he was not going to give Sam the opportunity of saying, “I told you so”. Levering himself upward on the two wooden appendages that were dangling uselessly from his shoulders, Frodo attempted to sit up. Perhaps he could do this better in stages. Too late, he discovered that the wood was not connected awfully well at shoulder and elbow. After half rising and pausing, trembling, for a few moments he collapsed back into his pillows with an undignified, “Humph”.

He should not have mopped the hall floor. Sam had told him not to mop the hall floor. Rosie had told him not to mop the hall floor. And now Frodo wished that he had not mopped the hall floor. 

He lay still, in defeat, waiting for Sam’s, “I told you so”. When it was not forthcoming Frodo cracked open his eyes to find his friend still standing at his bedside, a look of pity on his face. Still, the words did not come and Frodo found the silence as accusatory as any words could have been.

“I’m sorry, Sam. You were right about the floor.” He turned his most pleading look upon his friend. “Would you please help me out of this bed? Otherwise my body may lock in this position forever.”

He was rewarded with a compassionate smile and strong arms, easing him up to sit upon the bedside while his friend helped him don his dressing gown. Sam decided that he had made his point and returned to the role of concerned friend.

“Right, Mr Frodo. Rosie has filled the bath and that’s where you’re headed now. When you’ve had that you’re coming back to your bed and Rosie will bring you breakfast here. And here’s where you’re going to stay for the rest of the day.”

Frodo was too sore to argue. Perhaps after his bath he would be able to change Sam’s mind. He would be fine after the bath.

Slipping a hand about Frodo’s waist, Sam helped him up and guided him to the small bathroom.

0 0 0 0 

Warmth and steam and a wonderful, wonderful smell. Sam allowed his master to pause just inside the door of the small, windowless room and Frodo took it all in. Rosie had been busy.

The room was normally lit by oil lamp but Rosie had brought in dozens of candles instead. They decorated the shelves and she had even brought in a couple of small tables to provide surfaces for more. Frodo recognised some that had been sent from the queen on the occasion of his birthday. He could still not get used to the idea of receiving presents, rather than giving them, on his birthday. Sam led him further into the room and Frodo paused as he passed a couple of fat pink candles, inhaling the heady perfume of summer roses.

Bag End’s best towels, normally reserved for guests, were folded on a nearby chair and Frodo could see a scattering of dried lavender flowers upon the floor where they had been shaken out.

As they approached the bath, Frodo became aware of other perfumes, released into the air on the steam curling lazily upward from the bathtub. Athelas mingled with the woody and exotic aroma of sandalwood, and there was a scattering of yellow petals floating on the surface of the water.

“Oh Sam.” It was all Frodo could say around the lump in his throat. How long had Sam and Rosie spent preparing this for him? “I’m sorry to be such a trouble to you and Rosie.”

His friend helped him undress, hands strong and yet gentle, as though cosseting a tender sapling that had been touched by a late winter frost. “You ain’t no trouble to us, Sir. You just enjoy your bath. It’s a pure pleasure to look after you.” With those words he helped his friend step into the tub and lower himself into the warm water.

A towel had been folded against the high back and Frodo leaned his head against it with a soft sigh, eyes closing. 

Pain pinched and nipped at his lower back but the heat in the water soon overcame and he found himself moulding gratefully against the back of the tub. His eyes popped open when he heard a cloth being dampened and found Sam kneeling at the bath side, soaping a cloth. When he saw his master’s eyes open, he gave Frodo a look that brooked no argument.

“You just relax, Mr Frodo. I’ll do the cleaning and then you can soak until the water cools.” When he saw his charge draw breath to argue nonetheless, he continued, snatching the cloth out of Frodo’s half-hearted reach. “No arguments. I’ve done this before when you weren’t feeling well so it ain’t no problem for me and shouldn’t be for you.”

“Very well, Sam. I suppose I owe you some co-operation. You were right about the floor mopping. Will you forgive this stupid stubborn hobbit?” Frodo let his wrist be caught by his friend and acquiesced as the soapy cloth smoothed up and down his arm. 

“Ain’t nothin’ to forgive, Mr Frodo. You wanted to help and you did. Rosie says those hall floors ain’t been that clean for a long time.” He dipped the cloth and squeezed clean water over the pale arm stretched before him. “Now you just settle back and let your Sam look after you.”

The hot water, the warm glow of candles, the perfumes, and Sam’s caring touch all worked their magic at last and Frodo closed his eyes. Giving himself up completely to the cosseting of his friend. He had handed himself over to Sam’s care before . . . on that mountain. 

He focussed his mind on a more pleasant thought. Elrond’s house had smelled of roses and sandalwood. He had noticed it even in Bilbo’s room. The ancient and wrinkled face of his uncle formed in the mist of his mind. Bilbo would be leaving for the Havens later in the year. He was weary, he had said.

Weary.

Frodo thought back over the last year. At first, just getting the Shire back into some semblance of its former beauty had kept him busy. When that was done, and Sam had wed his Rosie, Frodo had hoped to slip back into the peace of Shire life. But with each passing day he felt more and more weary. And with each passing sunset the nightmares grew more frequent. 

Somewhere in the distance Frodo heard Elanor’s tiny wail and for a moment Sam’s hand halted in its ministrations. Then the crying ceased and the soft sound of Rosie’s singing slipped through the closed door. Sam’s hand continued its path across Frodo’s shoulders, content to know that his daughter was cared for. But there had been that moment, that moment when Sam had been torn between daughter and friend.

It was not a decision that he should have to make. Frodo had lost his roots in this world and knew too well that he had been using Sam and Rosie to hold him steady. But the Shire was slipping away from him nonetheless. He was drained, spent, and with each dawn he found even his ability to cover his emptiness diminished too.

Sam’s fingers worked soap into the curling hair on Frodo’s feet. Once upon a time, Frodo had loved to stand . . . curling his toes into the soft earth of his home . . . seeking and finding nurture in the crumble of moist soil, feeling the honest, gritty texture caught beneath his nails.

Elves walked above the ground, their footsteps leaving hardly a trace. Frodo felt like them, in a way. For, when he tried to curl his toes into the ground he found only soil. It no longer spoke to him, was no longer a part of him. The elves, were leaving Middle earth. They had cared for it for millennia but now they were handing it over. It would be safe in other hands. Their part in the tale was ended, as was Frodo’s. 

Why was he staying? This morning’s experience had shown that even in every day life he was weakening. His ill health was no longer confined to the anniversaries of his injuries. The body that had once been strong and supple was now stiff and weak. Sleep had lost its ability to restore him. Food had lost its taste. And all his experience since Mount Doom had shown him that matters would only grow worse.

He had expected to die at the Ring’s destruction, and a part of him had died. But he had been given another chance at life when Gandalf had snatched him out of the flames. The elves had known the cost. He reached up slowly to finger the white gem that hung at his throat. They had offered him yet another chance for life, knowing that he too needed to hand over the world he cared so much for, the life he loved, to others.

He had helped to save the Shire, but not for himself. It was time to hand over its care to others. And it was time to hand over the dreams for his life to someone else. If he stayed he would tear Sam’s soul apart as the simple gardener struggled between his love for family and his love for his master. The Ring had caused enough pain. Frodo was not about to let it blight the life of his dearest friend even after its destruction. 

Taking one last deep breath of perfumed steam, Frodo opened his eyes and smiled at Sam. “It’s time, Sam.”

“Right you are, Mr Frodo. I’ll get your towel.”

 

END


End file.
